sighed and continued walking, her question unanswered, for at this time there was no way of knowing.
The stables were practically empty—few horses and little tack remaining. As did the others, Arin bridled and saddled her own mount and filled her saddlebags with grain and affixed her traveling gear to the ties behind the rear cantle. At last all was ready and Arin and her escort slowly rode out and away from Wood’s-heart and into the twilit forest, while behind Rael watched them go, a troubled look on her face.
Into the airy silence of lofty Eldwood they rode, the horses’ hooves making little sound on the mossy way. After a while Arin looked back; nought but towering trees met her gaze. She faced front once more, following behind the others, heading for the ferry at Olorin Isle and to Caer Lindor beyond. At that fortress on the Rissanin River they would provision themselves for the long journey to the land of Aralan and shaggy Darda Vrka within. There they would seek out Dalavar to see if he knew aught of the green stone, aught of that token of power, and whether or not he knew of a way to avert its terrible doom.
C HAPTER 13
T oken of power?” Despite the amount Alos had drunk, his speech was not slurred by ale. “And just what might one of these tokens be, hey?”
Aiko snorted, but Arin said, “Something empowered to fulfill a destiny.”
“Eh?” Alos shook his head. “Empowered? Destiny? You speak in riddles, and I need another drink.” He held out the empty pitcher, his blind white eye fixed on Arin.
Aiko growled and shifted a sword, its blade glinting wickedly. Alos hurriedly thunked the empty pitcher back to the table and held out his hands and whined, “No offense, Lady. I meant to give no offense. It’s just that posers work up a thirst…and tokens of power are posers all right, what with their destinies and dooms and all.”
Egil shifted in his bed. “I would also like to hear more about these tokens. From what you say, my
engel
—my Lady, it seems they, too, carry wyrds…as do we all.”
“Wyrds?” Aiko raised an eyebrow.
“Aye,” answered Egil, his good blue eye glittering in the lamplight, for eve had fallen during Arin’s telling and the room was now illuminated by a soft, yellow glow. “Wyrds: that which drives men in the deeds they do…or the thing that awaits them in the end.”
“Hmph. Just men? You grunt like the priests of Hodakka.
Baka-gojona dokemono.
” Aiko turned her face and stared out the window.
“Dost thou believe thou hast a wyrd, Egil?”
“Aye, Lady Arin: a spear through my heart, a sword thrust, a death at sea, or some such. What it is I cannot say, but surely a wyrd awaits me.”
Aiko again fixed him with her dark gaze. “And what if you die of old age in bed?”
Egil barked a laugh. “Me? Die in bed? Not likely.”
Arin cast a glance at Aiko and then turned to Egil. “Mayhap thy wyrd has already come to pass, Egil. Mayhap it did so in Jute.”
Egil raised a hand to his bandages but did not reply.
Alos peered into his empty mug and sighed. “Wyrds I understand. —Oh, not that I believe in them…. But these tokens of power, well, they seem to be another thing altogether.” He looked up at Arin. “Just what are they and how do you know?”
All eyes shifted to Arin. She turned up a hand and said, “Tokens of power—at times hard to recognize, at other times known to all. They can be for Good or Ill: Gelvin’s Doom was a token of power for Evil—a feartoken. So, too, was the Black Throne of Hadron’s Hall. Those for Good are sometimes known: one is the Kammerling, Adon’s Hammer, destined to slay the greatest Dragon of all—though where the Kammerling is, none can say. Too, there is a sword in Adonar, Bale by name, and it would appear to fit the mold, though what its destiny may be, none can say. Others are unknown and seem to be one thing—jewels, poniards, rings, a trinket—but are truly something else altogether. Many look as if
The stables were practically empty—few horses and little tack remaining. As did the others, Arin bridled and saddled her own mount and filled her saddlebags with grain and affixed her traveling gear to the ties behind the rear cantle. At last all was ready and Arin and her escort slowly rode out and away from Wood’s-heart and into the twilit forest, while behind Rael watched them go, a troubled look on her face.
Into the airy silence of lofty Eldwood they rode, the horses’ hooves making little sound on the mossy way. After a while Arin looked back; nought but towering trees met her gaze. She faced front once more, following behind the others, heading for the ferry at Olorin Isle and to Caer Lindor beyond. At that fortress on the Rissanin River they would provision themselves for the long journey to the land of Aralan and shaggy Darda Vrka within. There they would seek out Dalavar to see if he knew aught of the green stone, aught of that token of power, and whether or not he knew of a way to avert its terrible doom.
C HAPTER 13
T oken of power?” Despite the amount Alos had drunk, his speech was not slurred by ale. “And just what might one of these tokens be, hey?”
Aiko snorted, but Arin said, “Something empowered to fulfill a destiny.”
“Eh?” Alos shook his head. “Empowered? Destiny? You speak in riddles, and I need another drink.” He held out the empty pitcher, his blind white eye fixed on Arin.
Aiko growled and shifted a sword, its blade glinting wickedly. Alos hurriedly thunked the empty pitcher back to the table and held out his hands and whined, “No offense, Lady. I meant to give no offense. It’s just that posers work up a thirst…and tokens of power are posers all right, what with their destinies and dooms and all.”
Egil shifted in his bed. “I would also like to hear more about these tokens. From what you say, my
engel
—my Lady, it seems they, too, carry wyrds…as do we all.”
“Wyrds?” Aiko raised an eyebrow.
“Aye,” answered Egil, his good blue eye glittering in the lamplight, for eve had fallen during Arin’s telling and the room was now illuminated by a soft, yellow glow. “Wyrds: that which drives men in the deeds they do…or the thing that awaits them in the end.”
“Hmph. Just men? You grunt like the priests of Hodakka.
Baka-gojona dokemono.
” Aiko turned her face and stared out the window.
“Dost thou believe thou hast a wyrd, Egil?”
“Aye, Lady Arin: a spear through my heart, a sword thrust, a death at sea, or some such. What it is I cannot say, but surely a wyrd awaits me.”
Aiko again fixed him with her dark gaze. “And what if you die of old age in bed?”
Egil barked a laugh. “Me? Die in bed? Not likely.”
Arin cast a glance at Aiko and then turned to Egil. “Mayhap thy wyrd has already come to pass, Egil. Mayhap it did so in Jute.”
Egil raised a hand to his bandages but did not reply.
Alos peered into his empty mug and sighed. “Wyrds I understand. —Oh, not that I believe in them…. But these tokens of power, well, they seem to be another thing altogether.” He looked up at Arin. “Just what are they and how do you know?”
All eyes shifted to Arin. She turned up a hand and said, “Tokens of power—at times hard to recognize, at other times known to all. They can be for Good or Ill: Gelvin’s Doom was a token of power for Evil—a feartoken. So, too, was the Black Throne of Hadron’s Hall. Those for Good are sometimes known: one is the Kammerling, Adon’s Hammer, destined to slay the greatest Dragon of all—though where the Kammerling is, none can say. Too, there is a sword in Adonar, Bale by name, and it would appear to fit the mold, though what its destiny may be, none can say. Others are unknown and seem to be one thing—jewels, poniards, rings, a trinket—but are truly something else altogether. Many look as if
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