at sea for a month. She slowly exited the chair and curtsied, her kohled eyes never leaving his. “It is so good to see you back in our fair Terokesh.”
“Pleasure to see you, too, Princess Mieshala,” he said with a bow, careful to keep his voice neutral. He grinned inwardly at the thought of what Cynthia would have to say about the sultan’s sister: beautiful, rich and obviously put on display as a bargaining chip by her politically minded brother. She played the part well, however, always gracious and kind.
And willing , he thought, taking her hand and touching the back of her fingers to his forehead in the formal deference.
“My brother, Sultan Mojani, Ruler of all Marathia, invites you to a feast in your honor.” One bejeweled hand swept in an arc toward her sedan chair. “I am to convey you to our humble home.”
Feldrin eyed her carefully, knowing this invitation was not one he would be allowed to decline. His gaze swept the fifty hoplites, each bearing a scimitar, javelin and bronze tower shield: the sultan’s elite. He wondered if he could re-board Orin’s Pride before they took or killed him, and how many would die if two ballistae bolts ripped through their ranks. He looked over his shoulder at the dozen or so grim sailors standing at the taffrail, ready to die at his command.
“I’d be pleased to attend, Princess Mieshala,” he said with another bow.
“Most excellent!” Her perfect smile beamed behind her gauzy silk veil. “Please come.”
“Of course.” He followed her to the sedan chair. “Sorry fellas,” he said to the bearers as he mounted the step. To his surprise, they didn’t even grunt when they lifted the extra weight.
Chapter Seven
Playing with Fire
Cynthia looked up at the lightkeeper’s tower with trepidation. For a change, the butterflies fluttering in her stomach had nothing to do with her pregnancy. Mouse’s nervous buzzing around her head and taps at her shoulder didn’t help. After catching up with friends yesterday, she had steeled herself to visit the lightkeeper today.
“We’re right here if you need us, Mistress Cynthia,” Brolan said, as if sensing her anxiety. He leaned his lanky frame against the wagon, looking relaxed, while Tim looked on fretfully.
“Thank you, Brolan. I don’t know how long I’ll be, though, so you may want to wait at the Starfish. I can walk that far. It’s all downhill.”
“We’re fine right here,” he said, grinning and clapping his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I may just teach young Tim here how to play Five-Card Mango, and there’s shade aplenty under the wagon.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, Mistress?” Tim asked for perhaps the twentieth time. “I could wait on the stoop.”
“I’ll be fine, Tim. Stay here with Brolan, but if I catch you hustling everyone back on Plume Island with the card games he teaches you, I’ll not be pleased!” Her grin made the comment a jest, but she saw immediately that he took it seriously.
“No, Mistress! I would never—”
“Relax, Tim. I’m joking. You two have fun.”
She turned to the wide stone path and started the easy climb up to the lighthouse. Although the track was wide and well-worn, she took care with every step; she couldn’t see her feet beyond her belly. Mouse tittered on her shoulder; his anxiety was infectious.
Cynthia had tried but failed to convince herself that her worry was really curiosity. What could the lightkeeper want from her, and why hadn’t he asked directly in his letter? Apparently, this was no trivial request. The second source of her concern was arcane; when last they met, she had not been a seamage. Would their conflicting fields of elemental magic now clash?
“Fire is love and water sorrow,” she muttered, as she reached the stoop and raised a hand to knock, “and only one will live to see the—”
The door flew open before her knuckles even touched the wood, startling her and frightening Mouse so badly
“Pleasure to see you, too, Princess Mieshala,” he said with a bow, careful to keep his voice neutral. He grinned inwardly at the thought of what Cynthia would have to say about the sultan’s sister: beautiful, rich and obviously put on display as a bargaining chip by her politically minded brother. She played the part well, however, always gracious and kind.
And willing , he thought, taking her hand and touching the back of her fingers to his forehead in the formal deference.
“My brother, Sultan Mojani, Ruler of all Marathia, invites you to a feast in your honor.” One bejeweled hand swept in an arc toward her sedan chair. “I am to convey you to our humble home.”
Feldrin eyed her carefully, knowing this invitation was not one he would be allowed to decline. His gaze swept the fifty hoplites, each bearing a scimitar, javelin and bronze tower shield: the sultan’s elite. He wondered if he could re-board Orin’s Pride before they took or killed him, and how many would die if two ballistae bolts ripped through their ranks. He looked over his shoulder at the dozen or so grim sailors standing at the taffrail, ready to die at his command.
“I’d be pleased to attend, Princess Mieshala,” he said with another bow.
“Most excellent!” Her perfect smile beamed behind her gauzy silk veil. “Please come.”
“Of course.” He followed her to the sedan chair. “Sorry fellas,” he said to the bearers as he mounted the step. To his surprise, they didn’t even grunt when they lifted the extra weight.
Chapter Seven
Playing with Fire
Cynthia looked up at the lightkeeper’s tower with trepidation. For a change, the butterflies fluttering in her stomach had nothing to do with her pregnancy. Mouse’s nervous buzzing around her head and taps at her shoulder didn’t help. After catching up with friends yesterday, she had steeled herself to visit the lightkeeper today.
“We’re right here if you need us, Mistress Cynthia,” Brolan said, as if sensing her anxiety. He leaned his lanky frame against the wagon, looking relaxed, while Tim looked on fretfully.
“Thank you, Brolan. I don’t know how long I’ll be, though, so you may want to wait at the Starfish. I can walk that far. It’s all downhill.”
“We’re fine right here,” he said, grinning and clapping his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I may just teach young Tim here how to play Five-Card Mango, and there’s shade aplenty under the wagon.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, Mistress?” Tim asked for perhaps the twentieth time. “I could wait on the stoop.”
“I’ll be fine, Tim. Stay here with Brolan, but if I catch you hustling everyone back on Plume Island with the card games he teaches you, I’ll not be pleased!” Her grin made the comment a jest, but she saw immediately that he took it seriously.
“No, Mistress! I would never—”
“Relax, Tim. I’m joking. You two have fun.”
She turned to the wide stone path and started the easy climb up to the lighthouse. Although the track was wide and well-worn, she took care with every step; she couldn’t see her feet beyond her belly. Mouse tittered on her shoulder; his anxiety was infectious.
Cynthia had tried but failed to convince herself that her worry was really curiosity. What could the lightkeeper want from her, and why hadn’t he asked directly in his letter? Apparently, this was no trivial request. The second source of her concern was arcane; when last they met, she had not been a seamage. Would their conflicting fields of elemental magic now clash?
“Fire is love and water sorrow,” she muttered, as she reached the stoop and raised a hand to knock, “and only one will live to see the—”
The door flew open before her knuckles even touched the wood, startling her and frightening Mouse so badly
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