Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind by Juliet E. McKenna Page B
Authors: Juliet E. McKenna
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never have imagined it, not till she'd encountered Sorgrad and learned of his arcane abilities.
She folded her hands across Tathrin's gloved grip on the reins. Would the Archmage, Planir the Black, know what Sorgrad had done? Tathrin had told her something of his terrifying encounter with the magewoman who had been pursuing that treacherous wizard hired by Litasse of Triolle. The dread in her beloved's voice had deterred her from asking further questions.
Now she wished she had. What had Tathrin said? Evidently this magewoman, Jilseth, had grudgingly forgiven Sorgrad's stealthy use of magic on those few occasions she knew of. He had led her to that traitorous mage and that seemed to balance those scales. But now the vile man was dead. There was no excuse for Sorgrad to break the Archmage's age-old edict against wizardry in Lescar's wars.
Failla knew Aremil dreaded the wizard-council of Hadrumal interfering in Lescari affairs. If the mages asserted their interests here, all because Sorgrad had burned down a few hovels, how could they keep the Caladhrian parliament of barons at bay? Or the Magistracy of Relshaz? Or most daunting of all, His Imperial Majesty, Tadriol the Provident of Tormalin?
Chapter Eight
Branca
The Three Fountains Inn,
Solland, in the Tormalin Empire,
19th of For-Winter
The fountain in the courtyard below the window was ringed by creamy paving. It was smaller than the other two since it symbolised the Lesser Moon rather than the Greater or, mightiest of all, the Sun.
Symbol of mysteries, yet to be discovered and never to be uncovered. Branca wondered what she and Charoleia would find here in Toremal. How successfully would they hide everything they must conceal?
Blind white marble, Arrimelin, goddess of sleep and dreams, gazed into the blue-tiled basin, empty now to save the spouting spiral seashells from damage by winter's frosts. It seemed she was particularly revered in Solland. That was apt given her associations with rivers and shorelines, in this port city where the River Asilor reached the Gulf of Lescar.
Branca looked up at the mottled clouds, grey as oyster shells. Should she turn to Aldabreshin cosmology? The Archipelagans said the Lesser Moon was a heavenly Opal, offering omens of harmony and truth among the patterns wrought with the other jewels and stars of the night sky. But the Lesser Moon had waned almost to darkness, now outshone by the full circle of her greater sister.
The ancient races of Forest and Mountain had their different foretelling rites. As Branca recalled, the Lesser Moon was a sharp-edged rune. Its closed circle could be a task completed, or one cut short before it was done. It indicated aloofness that could be serenity or madness. It might reflect chastity or virginity; a hopeful state for some, the bitterness of disappointment for others.
There were times when scholarship was no help whatsoever. Knowing so many creeds, she couldn't value one above any other. She could blame neither all-powerful deities nor uncaring cosmic fate, or beg either to pardon what she had done.
Voices sounded in the corridor. Thankful for the interruption, she hastened to the door.
'Thank you.' Charoleia took a silver mark from the mesh reticule hanging from her wrist.
'Thank you, my lady.' The lackey deftly palmed the coin.
Branca noted the pinched pallor around Charoleia's glossed lips and snapped her fingers. 'White brandy, if you please.'
'As you wish.' The obliging man hurried away.
'You're getting used to ordering the domestics.' Charoleia was wanly amused.
'How are you feeling?' Branca escorted her to the cushioned daybed.
Charoleia sat down with a heartfelt sigh. 'Just help me off with this cursed wig.'
'There's no news at the shrine?' Branca began removing enamelled pins securing the elaborate hairpiece
'Just the same fevered gossip as yesterday and the day before that.' Charoleia winced.
Branca carefully lifted the wig away. 'At least you're getting the
She folded her hands across Tathrin's gloved grip on the reins. Would the Archmage, Planir the Black, know what Sorgrad had done? Tathrin had told her something of his terrifying encounter with the magewoman who had been pursuing that treacherous wizard hired by Litasse of Triolle. The dread in her beloved's voice had deterred her from asking further questions.
Now she wished she had. What had Tathrin said? Evidently this magewoman, Jilseth, had grudgingly forgiven Sorgrad's stealthy use of magic on those few occasions she knew of. He had led her to that traitorous mage and that seemed to balance those scales. But now the vile man was dead. There was no excuse for Sorgrad to break the Archmage's age-old edict against wizardry in Lescar's wars.
Failla knew Aremil dreaded the wizard-council of Hadrumal interfering in Lescari affairs. If the mages asserted their interests here, all because Sorgrad had burned down a few hovels, how could they keep the Caladhrian parliament of barons at bay? Or the Magistracy of Relshaz? Or most daunting of all, His Imperial Majesty, Tadriol the Provident of Tormalin?
Chapter Eight
Branca
The Three Fountains Inn,
Solland, in the Tormalin Empire,
19th of For-Winter
The fountain in the courtyard below the window was ringed by creamy paving. It was smaller than the other two since it symbolised the Lesser Moon rather than the Greater or, mightiest of all, the Sun.
Symbol of mysteries, yet to be discovered and never to be uncovered. Branca wondered what she and Charoleia would find here in Toremal. How successfully would they hide everything they must conceal?
Blind white marble, Arrimelin, goddess of sleep and dreams, gazed into the blue-tiled basin, empty now to save the spouting spiral seashells from damage by winter's frosts. It seemed she was particularly revered in Solland. That was apt given her associations with rivers and shorelines, in this port city where the River Asilor reached the Gulf of Lescar.
Branca looked up at the mottled clouds, grey as oyster shells. Should she turn to Aldabreshin cosmology? The Archipelagans said the Lesser Moon was a heavenly Opal, offering omens of harmony and truth among the patterns wrought with the other jewels and stars of the night sky. But the Lesser Moon had waned almost to darkness, now outshone by the full circle of her greater sister.
The ancient races of Forest and Mountain had their different foretelling rites. As Branca recalled, the Lesser Moon was a sharp-edged rune. Its closed circle could be a task completed, or one cut short before it was done. It indicated aloofness that could be serenity or madness. It might reflect chastity or virginity; a hopeful state for some, the bitterness of disappointment for others.
There were times when scholarship was no help whatsoever. Knowing so many creeds, she couldn't value one above any other. She could blame neither all-powerful deities nor uncaring cosmic fate, or beg either to pardon what she had done.
Voices sounded in the corridor. Thankful for the interruption, she hastened to the door.
'Thank you.' Charoleia took a silver mark from the mesh reticule hanging from her wrist.
'Thank you, my lady.' The lackey deftly palmed the coin.
Branca noted the pinched pallor around Charoleia's glossed lips and snapped her fingers. 'White brandy, if you please.'
'As you wish.' The obliging man hurried away.
'You're getting used to ordering the domestics.' Charoleia was wanly amused.
'How are you feeling?' Branca escorted her to the cushioned daybed.
Charoleia sat down with a heartfelt sigh. 'Just help me off with this cursed wig.'
'There's no news at the shrine?' Branca began removing enamelled pins securing the elaborate hairpiece
'Just the same fevered gossip as yesterday and the day before that.' Charoleia winced.
Branca carefully lifted the wig away. 'At least you're getting the
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